


Make It Do What It Do

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2008-2009 NHL Season, 2009-2010 NHL Season, Atlanta Thrashers, M/M, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's weird, Zach thinks. There's speculation about the powered population, a whole lot of tabloid bullshit about them being able to sense each other, link with one another, all that sort of sensationalized malarkey. But there's a funny connection Zach feels to Kane as soon as he enters the dressing room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Do What It Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathybites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/gifts).



> Superpowers!AU. Obviously pretty hand-wavey with regards to actual hypothetical NHL policy, but, you know. Superpowers. AU. Etc. Otherwise basically canon-compliant with the noted seasons and events thereof.
> 
> Title from Britney's "Hot As Ice".
> 
> Written for the Happyhockeydays challenge over on LJ, originally posted 12-21-2012.

| | |

 

There's an almighty _whoosh_ , and a tree twenty yards away bursts into flame, roaring so loud Zach winces. He curses, flings his other hand out, and the fire hisses out of existence as a wall of ice climbs the height of the tree with a violently abrupt crack.

The sudden quiet almost makes his ears ring. But the backwoods settles slowly into itself again, save for the heavy, uneasy creaking of the newly-glacial tree.

"Dude."

Zach turns around. His brother's standing behind him, rocking back on his heels and looking at the tree with raised eyebrows.

"Dude, you have _got to learn_ how to control that shit."

| | |

Two months later, and Aaron's still right.

Zach turned 18 in July, and he still hasn't learned a consistent way to handle the powers that manifest in approximately 20% of the population at time of their legal adulthood.

There _are_ classes, of course. Year-or-more-long courses that teach discipline and responsibility for those with nearly-unmanageable or distinctly more dangerous mutations.

That's not really an option for Zach, though, is it, not when he's coming fresh off the high of being selected third overall in the draft and has his future bright and beautiful in front of him.

He shoulders the back door to Aaron's place open, pushes Gunner, Aaron' dog, away with his boot, and goes to collapse on the couch.

The TV stays off, even as Zach palms the remote out of habit.

He drops his head against the back of the couch instead, tosses the remote to the opposite side where it bounces on the cushions.

Prospect camp is in a week. It'll be fine, he knows, it's not like he's a complete idiot. He'll be focused and driven and he won't let anything get him riled up enough that his lack of control over his powers will be evident. He's worked hard enough on everything else that it won't be an issue.

It won't, he tells himself. Just like every other time, he doesn't quite believe himself. It won't, it -

"Hey, buddy." Tuck jumps up onto the couch next to him, curls up at his side and drops his head onto Zach's thigh. His ridiculous ears perk up at Zach even as he noses damply into Zach's jeans.

Zach drops a hand onto his dog's neck, scratches gently behind his ears and under his collar where the fur gets caught sometimes.

It'll be fine.

Tuck huffs at him like he can hear what Zach's thinking, and Zach lets himself drift off, fingers still circling idly around the soft base of Tuck's ears, feeling his breathing sync up and go steady and deep.

| | |

September comes and goes, and brings with it a gorgeous 3-year entry-level contract that has Zach unthinkingly nearly blowing himself to pieces when he smacks a joyful, too-hot hand down on the hood of his car after the meeting, brimming with excitement and not enough control.

The Thrashers are ready for him, slating him in for the opening night roster, and Zach keeps a cool head - literally. Even when he throws a few at Brashear, his control is iron-tight like it's never been before.

"It's the rink ice," Aaron insists later, on the phone from Springfield, with all the certainty of someone whose mutations remain latent. "Fifty bucks it's the like, external extreme temperature change."

Zach gives him a laugh, but rolls his eyes where Aaron can't see. "Yeah, okay." The hotel room is stifling. He's sore from the game, the adrenaline rush is finally wearing off, and he doesn't want to move from where he collapses backward onto the bed when he came in. The air conditioning unit is way too far away.

Aaron starts in on how the Falcons are doing, something about a bag skate three days in a row, and Zach tunes out just a little bit. He picks up the glass on the end-table and focuses. It frosts over in seconds, way too fast; Zach's fingers prickle painfully as they get caught on the ice.

"Yeah, for sure," he agrees automatically to god-knows-what, wincing and rubbing his hand on his jeans to warm it back up. He's learned the fire he can produce is a little too intense for something as delicate as heating up his own skin.

Ice is the same, of course, except for how he can usually focus it onto the object, not himself, better than this. He's always been more comfortable with the ice than the fire.

Either way, he has a cold glass of ice-water now, and he hmm-s and agrees and laughs along to Aaron's bullshitting.

He falls asleep easily after Aaron hangs up, already thinking ahead to the next game he gets to play in the big league.

| | |

The general public has more or less come around on the tenuous relationship that most professional athletic leagues have carved out with powered athletes.

In over-simplified terms, there's a certain honor agreement those who play with powers are held to. Under no circumstances are they allowed to use any type of manifested power, deliberately or accidentally. It's punishable by fines (determined on a sliding scale of intent and recklessness) and every contract now has written into it an automatic-termination clause if the abuse of powers is on a large enough scale.

At last canvas, more than 85% of professional athletes remain without documented mutations. The issue rarely comes up: powered athletes keep a tight reign on what they have the potential to do, and the general populace pretends there's nothing - nobody - out of the ordinary playing the sports they pay to watch.

The League cracks down brutally hard on any infraction, anyway. One of the first powered players to play professional hockey in the W was cut from his team and denied all chance of redemption when he so much as made the arena lights flicker, an instinctive reaction to taking a right hook to the jaw in a scrum.

So when Zach loses control eight games into the season, scorching a hole the size of his fist into the penalty box floor when he's called for a bullshit holding penalty, the league spins a story about him breaking his leg. Nobody in the know completely believes it - they never do -, but it's enough for the casual fans, and that's enough to keep the peace.

They let him cool his heels for a solid month, then rejoin in Chicago, playing for the A until January. They say it's reconditioning.

He's the only powered player in the entire Thrashers organization. There's a kid down in Georgia for them whose documented, but it's something stupid - making plants grow, or some shit. Hardly something the guy has to worry about on the ice.

Zach practices all summer, blasting twigs, single leaves if he can, off of trees in the middle of nowhere, first with ice then with fire. He's come a ways from letting half the forest go up in flames, but it still scares the living shit out of him sometimes. He can't help thinking about getting kicked out of the league just because he burns a little hotter at the exhausted end of a shift, or killing a penalty, or during the last five minutes holding a tenuous lead - whatever it may be. He has to be 100% all the goddamn time and it's brutal and lonely and stressful as fuck sometimes. Even practicing until he's ready to collapse doesn't change that.

| | |

What does change it is the 2009 Entry Draft.

There's been buzz about the new crop of players, but none more so than Kane. This kid had an early-manifest power, super-strength or something similar, and he's turning heads as much for his hockey skill as he is for being wide open and easily divulgent about his power, about how there's a place for discussion about cheating, but that ultimately it's a trust issue: it's not something that affects his career, and how the media's refusal to face that fact hurts the individual athletes more than it helps the sport. It's refreshing, Zach won't lie, and when the Thrashers snap him up at fourth overall, Zach doesn't quit smiling for days.

Of course, it's not until training camp that they actually meet for the first time.

It's weird, Zach thinks. There's speculation about the powered population, a whole lot of tabloid bullshit about them being able to sense each other, link with one another, all that sort of sensationalized malarkey. But there's a funny connection Zach feels to Kane as soon as he enters the dressing room.

Zach focuses on tying his skates, elbows Little when his laces split with the first tug, and he's so tempted to show off a little for Kane across the room. Maybe frost up Little's helmet into a solid block of ice in retaliation, but he keeps that urge tamped down.

He finishes getting dressed, and when he looks up again, Kovy has his head tilted down, talking lowly to Kane, and Kane's staring straight at Zach.

Zach blinks, then nods back acknowledgingly. He shakes his gear into place a last time, and makes sure to stomp with his skates on the stupid street shoes Little left under his stall as he goes.

| | |

It's not a real team outing when some of them head out to a nearby grill after camp, since nobody's getting drunk and they all have to be up bright and early and running 110% next morning.

Still, Zach could use a bit of a settle-down after the rush of the day.

He orders something light with an iced tea, and barely notices when someone sits down on the bar stool next to him.

"So I hear I won't be the only guy with an advantage out on the ice here."

Zach huffs a laugh and swivels. Kane - Evander - is grinning at him, easy and clear-eyed. "Not funny," Zach says, his smile belying it.

"Aw, it's a little funny. As long as I'm right and you won't run to the Post with quotes I plan to cheat my way through my NHL career, of course." Evander keeps his grin, but his face goes a little tense, just a tiny change in the barely-there lines around his eyes.

Zach wouldn't notice if he wasn't watching. He lets his voice drop a tone quieter, serious. "No, man, I don't do that. And you're right, anyway. I'd just be hurting The Cause." He's being a mocking, facetious, there, pronouncing the words with the capital letters the conspiracy media is so fond of - referencing that all-encompassing Cause that involves the powered population using their advantage indiscriminately in an eventual bid to overthrow the current government or some bullshit.

Evander relaxes and settles into his bar stool. He steals one of Zach's fries, says, "Yeah, yeah. Good." He chews thoughtfully for a second, then, "So...What's yours?"

Zach intercepts the kid's coffee as the waitstaff brings it. He hands it off himself to Evander with the drink turned to ice.

"...Wasteful," Evander says, barely blinking but poking at the frozen coffee with one finger, looking fascinated.

Zach shrugs. "Watch your hand."

"Why? It's my- holy shit."

Evander pulls his hand away just in time, as Zach blasts the cup back to sizzling-hot liquid, a tiny tongue of flame flickering upwards as the mug itself starts to steam.

Evander swallows. "So you're a glorified kitchen appliance," he manages. "That's pretty lame."

Zach grins down into his own iced tea, taking a big gulp to try to hide it. Evander's still wide-eyed, obviously impressed despite himself, and hey. It feels good, all right? To share this with someone, someone else who knows what it takes to live with it.

They sit in silence for a while longer. Zach pays his bill and hands off the check to their waitress. "So like. You're basically the Hulk, right?"

That gets an eye-roll. "Barely. I can just beat everyone at arm-wrestling, it's no big deal."

Zach stands up and leans on the bar, waiting for Evander to finish scrawling his signature on his own bill. "You lifted a zamboni on live TV."

Evander snorts. "Oh, right. Okay, so I can beat you at arm-wrestling, and also beat you in every work-out you can imagine." He grabs his jacket. "But, you know. I could probably do that even without the power."

Zach laughs out loud. "Right, right." He gives Evander an obvious once-over, then ignores the way the tips of his ears immediately turn hot when Evander preens for him, all silly teenager. "Sure you could."

Evander laughs, too, putting up his fists. "Hey, man, I was named after a boxer for a reason, let's go - "

Slatesy walks by them at that moment, knocking Zach's head forward with his palm. "Hey, hey, no fighting, you be nice to the rookies now."

Evander bumps Zach's shoulder as Slates continues on his way. "Yeah, man." He smirks, his voice dropping a little deeper, nearly a purr as he leans another inch in. "Be _nice_ to me."

Before Zach can get a handle on _that_ , Evander starts cackling like an idiot, and Zach dismisses it entirely, cracking another smile himself.

| | |

It's not that anything really changes, but there's a palpable security to having someone else like him on the team.

Added to that, Evander's barely a year younger than Zach, he's friendly and open, and he doesn't even mind Zach's taste in music. All right, so he does mock the Britney, but Zach only lets him get away with that since he's otherwise openly impressed with the audio system in Zach's car that everybody else on the team rolls their eyes at.

Zach gives Evander a ride to the Bulb for practice, or to the airport for away games, sometimes, rolls up with the sub-woofers pounding and the windows open. Evander settles into the passenger seat, and every time, tips his head back comfortably like he's reveling in the nearly-tangible presence of the music.

Zach catches himself glancing at the long line of his neck sometimes, or the smooth dip of his throat into his t-shirt, but he tries not to think about that. He catches Evander dragging his eyes over him, too, once every so often, but that he definitely shoves that into the furthest corner of his brain and ignores it determinedly. There's no way Evander's looking at him like he looks at Evander, so- he doesn't even let himself _wonder_.

Pavs gives him shit for it, of course, because it's Pavs, and Pavs was the first one Zach really showed his power to on the team. He's steady and accepting and Zach trusts him with just about anything, but it turns out he can be a fucking incredible little shit about what he assumes is just a crush.

"Stare harder," Pavs mutters, shifting his weight reflexively away from Zach's immediate elbow to his kidney.

"I'm not staring, fuckshit." He hits home on the next elbow he throws into Pavs' ribs. And he's not. He's observing. Because Evander playing darts with Toby and Army is something worth observing.

It's not that cold outside in Atlanta in mid-December, and the curves of muscle in Evander's upper arms are on full display, since he's only wearing a thin t-shirt that looks like its made with the softest cotton in the world.

And it's not like Zach wants to touch it, per se, he just has a healthy interest in what it would feel like under his hand. Maybe bunched up in his fist. Or crumpled on his floor next to his bed so he could explore the skin underneath it.

Normal things.

...Okay, so this is probably something he should face or try to resolve like a communicative adult, but he's nineteen, making more money than he knows what to do with, and the last thing he wants to do is upset the delicate balance of friendship and career by throwing whatever-the-hell this is into the equation.

He bites his lip, and Pavs snorts next to him. That definitely calls for an answer, and he gets an arm around Pavs' neck, reeling him close into a headlock before Pavs knows what's happening.

Pavs squawks, and Toby's next throw goes wide as he jerks his head around at the noise, startled.

"No fair!" Toby points an accusing finger at Zach, and Zach keeps his hold on their struggling goalie while making the most innocent face he can muster.

"Who, me? No, no, that was all Pavs, but don't worry, I'm taking care of it." He throws them all a little salute with his free hand.

Evander and Toby are grinning, and Army's rolling his eyes so hard he's going to break something.

"Mis-throw," he says. "Toby. Tobias. Go again."

Toby narrows his eyes at Zach, though the menace is lost in his sweet Swedish babyface. He throws wide again, anyway, and Army crows.

"Oh yeah, motherfuckers! Pay up!"

Zach lets Pavs go, and as soon as he's free, Pavs gets a good punch in to Zach's stomach that makes Zach double over, only half playing it up.

When he straightens, Toby's challenged Army to a double-or-nothing game, and Evander's evidently forked over his share of whatever stupid bet they had set up, because he's standing right where Pavs was two seconds ago.

Pavs is nowhere in sight.

"You kind of suck at darts," Zach says.

Evander steals his beer and shrugs, taking a long swig. "Not really my game."

"Oh yeah, and that'd be...what, again? Golf, right?"

Evander smiles, but doesn't answer. He leans back, facing the room with his elbows on the bar, Zach's beer still dangling from his fingers. Zach ends up mirroring him.

Across the room, Boultsy's trying to put the moves on a pretty brunette at least ten years younger than him. It's hilarious. Even Zach can tell her smile's pasted on, awkward. He opens his mouth to mock him when Evander speaks up first.

"So what's wrong with your hand?"

It comes out of nowhere, and Zach twitches in surprise. He flicks a quick look at Evander's face, but Evander's still staring peacefully out across the tables and booths, expressionless.

"Nothing," Zach says. He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers in Evander's face. "See? Not a damn thing."

Evander's jawline goes a little tight, but he keeps his light tone. "Yeah, sorry if I don't believe you." He lowers his voice, and finally swings his head around to look at Zach. "I mean... Seriously, man. You're not taking half the shots you could. You pass when you have the best angle, the best opening. Your wind-up is shit. You-"

Zach cuts him off by yanking his stolen beer bottle out of Evander's hands. It's warm, and he wraps his palm around it, then hisses when it frosts up with ice, too fast and freeze-burning the tips of his fingers. "Yeah, _shut up_. We're not talking about this."

Evander's face goes stubborn and determined like it does on the ice when he's cutting down a lane on too-little time. Zach's pretty sure he won't let it go just because Zach's asked...well, not nicely, but that's beside the point.

Zach downs the rest of his beer in a long gulp. "We're not talking about this _here_ ," he amends.

| | |

It's like Evander expects him to make more excuses, because as soon as they duck out the back exit, Evander's right up in his space. He pushes Zach back against the ally wall with one hand, and oh -

That's not normal strength. Zach's not sure how he knows Evander's using his power, isn't even 100% sure he is, but it's not like Evander's even pushing particularly hard. It just feels more...emphatic, more pointed, than if he was simply shoving Zach around like anyone else.

Zach's never felt it before. It's weird.

Evander's frowning at him. Zach's so used to seeing him smile around him that the expression looks out of place on his face. "You hurt yourself and you're not playing your best because you're not fucking telling anyone about the injury." His fingers dig into Zach's chest, hard enough Zach can feel his nails. "Tell me that's not what's going on, Bogo."

Zach swallows, and Evander's watching him so closely it almost looks like Evander's eyes track that movement, too. He doesn't know what to say.

The truth is, his hand's been pretty fucked up since October. He went down hard behind the net, and then someone else, he can't even remember who, tripped and fell half on top of him and trapped his hand against the back bar of the net and he's wincing just thinking about it before he can help himself.

His silence is telling, though, and Evander swears. " _Zach_..." He sounds young and betrayed, and Zach's suddenly angry, defensive, and he grabs Evander's wrist.

"Hey, what do you want me to do? Sit out the start of my sophomore season, too? You know I fucking missed these games last year with my leg. It's not broken. You've seen me out there, I can still play." He squeezes Evander's wrist as hard as he can, not that it makes a difference. It sends a pang of pain through his own wrist, because his body's timing sucks. He ignores that, and focuses hard on Evander. "And I'm going to continue to play."

"Nope. No, fuck you, you can't-"

"It's not your call!" Zach's almost yelling now. He knows he's acting like the teenager he is, that he needs to calm down, but it's not Evander's call. It's his own choice, and yeah, it fucking sucks not being able to play at 100%, but not playing at all sucks a hundred, a thousand times more. He lowers his voice with an effort. "I'm not sitting out again."

"What if you're making it worse. What if you're permanently fucking it up. Zach, shit, think about this, I don't want-" Evander stops. "Come on, man. Please don't do this."

Zach spreads his free arm wide. "Already am."

Evander's face collapses, and something terribly painful tugs hard in Zach's gut, but before he can regret anything, Evander curses below his breath. He yanks his wrist easily out of Zach's grip, takes a step back, and puts his fist into the brick wall not six inches from Zach's head.

His super strength means the bricks just shatter, turning to a fine dust, almost, and Zach flinches clear of the debris, wide-eyed.

He stares at Evander, taken aback by the gesture of frustration, and then Evander apologizes all in a rush, swearing. He pushes into Zach's space again, and for a delirious second Zach thinks he's going to hit _him_ this time, but all he does is pin Zach's shoulders to the wall and kiss him hard. Zach can't move or think or _move_ oh god holy shit, there's that feeling again.

Evander's using his power to keep him in place and that shouldn't be hot, but it is, it so is, and Zach moans in surprise around Evander's tongue, feels his cock jerk in his pants at the thought. His knees want to buckle with the unexpected wave of heat as Evander moans back, but Evander's arm is a crowbar keeping him upright.

Evander's pulling away too soon, too fast, and this time he doesn't apologize, but he looks at Zach blankly and says nothing at all. The spiky tingle that Zach associates with his power fades gradually.

It's not like Zach knows what to say, either. His brain is scrambled, too many thoughts and a distinct overflow of serious emotions and he honestly doesn't know what to do with all of this right now. He blinks, confused and turned-on and feeling a weird heaviness settle in his chest.

Evander takes his hands off of Zach, and walks away.

| | |

Neither of them talk about it again.

Evander gets pissy after lost games sometimes, throwing his duffel harder than necessary into the trunk of Zach's car, responding to Zach's small talk shortly, tapping his hand against the door handle compulsively. But he doesn't ever refuse the ride in the first place; he still hangs out with Zach more than anyone else, laughs and jokes and eventually seemingly goes back to normal, and Zach bats away the nagging guilt he feels sometimes, like Evander's mad at him for not playing at his full capacity.

For his part, Zach doesn't think about that night at all, if he can help it.

But a lot of times, he can't help it. He'd be lying if he said he never thought about Evander pushing him up against something again, or over something, with his hand on the back of Zach's neck keeping him in place.

Worse, he thinks about how Evander looked when he was demanding Zach not fuck with his career. He always pushes that thought away, though. He stands by what he said. It's his call. It hurts like a bitch to play sometimes, but that's the game.

December bleeds into January, then February. In February they lose Kovy to the Devils, and the team seems emptier for a while without a captain. They adjust and move on, into March and April, and then Evander punches Matt Cooke and all hell explodes.

With anyone else, it might be just a simple KO, but with a powered athlete, especially a rookie like Evander who's been nothing but open about how he can lift a zamboni with one hand or uproot a tree with a light tug - it's chaos as soon as Cooke goes down to the ice and stays down.

The officials pull Evander away more roughly than they usually do, and Zach's already skating over, frowning. The crowd's roaring, and Zach's not stupid. He connects the dots right away, even as Evander's arguing with the official, insisting it was a regular impact and nothing to do with whatever power he has.

The guy's shaking his head, though, ushering Evander toward - fuck, toward the hallway, not just the box, and Evander breaks his stick hard against the tunnel entrance as he goes, swearing.

Zach tries to get the official's attention, but he's already skating back to Cooke, who's still lying quiet on the ice.

Cooke gets up eventually, the crowd quiets down marginally, and the game goes on. They finish out the game and go home and Zach makes Evander ride with him.

They sit in the parking garage for longer than necessary. It's dark and empty and kind of damp. Even so, Zach likes how it feels like it's just them in the entire building.

"I didn't use -" Evander tries to say, finally.

"Dude, come on." Zach twists his head to face him. "Fuck, _I_ know that."

Evander just looks at him.

"He was after you the whole game, he was the one who asked for it, and it's not your fault you have a bitchin' right hook."

That gets a strained laugh out of Evander. Zach faces forward again, turns the car on. "You wouldn't, anyway."

Evander taps his fingers against the armrest, fidgety. "Tell that to the ref. Tell it to the media. The league. Fuck. _Fuck_." He jams the heel of his hand into his eye, swears helplessly under his breath.

Zach's grip on the steering wheel goes tight. "No. Don't - This won't be a problem. The league's not so dumb it'd take any kind of action on something they can't prove."

They both know that's not strictly true. Players have gotten kicked out for less.

Neither of them say it, but they're both thinking it, Zach's sure. This could be the death knell of Evander's budding career.

"You're going to be fine." He feels too young to be mustering this much certainty, but he pushes it into his voice for Evander's sake. "This'll blow over and you'll be back to kicking ass in no time."

| | |

They hand down Evander's suspension the next day.

Indeterminate length of time, pending investigation into the scrum.

| | |

Cooke isn't much of a help in clearing Evander's name. His comments are uncontroversial and vague. He can't tell if it was anything more than a regular punch. How would he, he questions, a hundred times answering the same question.

Zach himself tries to do as many interviews as he can on the team's advice for good PR. They don't want it to seem like he's hiding something, they say, and Zach doesn't quite understand that, but he's all for doing what he can to have Evander back.

Evander's gone 15 games in total. Zach manages to keep his cool about everything up until the last game of Evander's suspension. They've finally concluded that there's simply insufficient evidence to terminate Evander's contract, and that the 15 games served is enough of a future warning and fan appeaser.

It's a home game, sparsely attended, and Zach doesn't really think anything of agreeing to do a routine interview post-game.

"Zach, the goal by Giroux in the third - "

"Zach, the tripping penalty on Briere that led to your goal early in the second -"

"Zach, with the imminent return of your teammate Evander Kane to the lineup tomorrow, do you think the ice is a less safe place with players like him in the game?"

He'd answered everything else on auto-pilot, exhausted and rote, but that question brings him up short. It's from a diminutive, balding man Zach has trouble placing. He's not surprised by that, since the so-called Kane Scandal has been drawing in mainstream media since the suspension was first announced.

Zach stares the man down for a second before he answers. "Players like him?" He gives the guy a chance to wriggle out of it.

"Players that don't have any problem abusing their powers on the ice. Players that give powered players - like you - a bad name."

Zach goes still. He takes a careful breath. "I think anyone that thinks Evander Kane got to where he is by anything other than the same hard work everyone else puts in to get here is an ignorant dick looking for a story that doesn't exist."

That gets a few murmurs from the faces behind the microphones around him, but the unfamiliar journalist doesn't back down. "Well then! I know the two of you are friends, now, but don't you think it's irresponsible and, well, downright dangerous for a boy like him to-"

Zach's anger is so overwhelming he forgets where he is. He feels abruptly too cold, then too hot, and he says, "Fuck you," quietly, then louder, "Fuck you," until Chelios is wrapping a firm hand around his arm, pushing him behind himself and taking over the interview by force.

Zach winds up seething in the showers, still only half-dressed, hearing Chris shut down any more questions with the stable, no-nonsense equanimity that comes from years of dealing with irritating press people. He wants to make the room go up in flame, burn something down on the largest scale he can. He wants to turn everything in view silent as a grave, coated in a five-inch layer of ice.

And he could, it'd be the work of a moment, especially as worked up as he is. He can picture it; he can feel it try to well up in his veins.

But he doesn't. He breathes deep, clenches his fists at his side, and eventually Pavs pokes his head in. "They're gone."

Zach just nods and doesn't look at him. He's still angry, but it's bleeding slowly into fatigue. He feels like he did just blast a hole into the wall or freeze the entire arena's water in its pipes. He's exhausted.

| | |

He turns down Pavs' offer of a ride home. Pavs peels out ahead of him, though, and then follows him closely until their routes part ways. Zach's going to give him shit for the babysitting bullshit tomorrow, but right now he's just too tired to call him on it, especially when they're in separate vehicles and he just wants to get _home_. A tiny part of him appreciates the gesture, though. Pavs is only a few years older than him and should by all rights still act like the kid he really is, but he's one of the most solid guys Zach's met. Goalies for you.

Evander's car is parked on its usual terrible angle in his driveway, and Evander himself is waiting for him on his couch. He looks at home, feet propped up on Zach's coffee table, sweats riding low on his hips as he eats the Chinese that's been lurking behind the milk for almost a week now in Zach's fridge.

Zach drops his duffel at the door, grabs Tucks head in both hands for a quick hello wrestle, then follows his dog back into the living room. "You're getting food poisoning." He nods toward the carton Evander's holding.

Evander shrugs and shovels another forkful into his mouth. "Tastes fine to me." Tuck hops up on the couch - bad manners, and now Zach knows who's been encouraging him. Zach frowns at him, and Tuck jumps back down easily enough, panting at him good-naturedly. He curls up at Evander's feet instead.

"Tell me it still tastes fine when you're puking into my trash tomorrow." Zach wanders away to pop open his cabinets, idly searching for something to eat. He's not actually hungry, but he needs to have something before he crashes or he'll regret it in he morning.

In the end all he grabs is a Cliff bar. He collapses on the couch next to Evander and tears open the wrapper with his teeth.

"Good game tonight," Evander says.

Zach looks up. Evander sets down his food.

"Yeah, it was...something." Zach shifts a little closer to throw a light elbow at Evander's shoulder. "And hey! You'll be playing next game."

Evander takes a gulp of water and flicks up an eyebrow in response. He fiddles with the cap on the water bottle. "Yeah. I, uh. I saw the interview, too."

Zach tenses up. "That guy was a dick. Don't think about it."

"Dude, you called him that to his face. You told him to fuck off on _live TV_. Trust me, not thinking about it isn't really something that's gonna happen." Evander's giving him this look that Zach doesn't know what to do with. Then Evander's scooting closer, and Zach very, very carefully doesn't move an inch.

"Um." He can't be blamed if it's hard to think with Evander this close. They're just buddies, he reminds himself, and steadfastly doesn't think of anything else.

"You'll probably get fined," Evander continues, conversationally like he's not right up in Zach's space, like he's not planting both hands on either side of Zach's hips.

"Got some money saved up," Zach manages. "You, uh-?"

"You better not get suspended for my first game back, you fuck." Evander grins at him, then, and Zach 's been nice and patient and polite and given Evander the benefit of the doubt, but fuck that now. He lets himself groan, finally, he's been holding it in for too long, and Evander leans forward against Zach insistently, balancing with care.

Zach falls back easily, Evander bearing down over him that extra bodily pressure, until he's leaning against the arm of the couch and Evander's almost in his lap.

This time, Evander doesn't hold him down, but it's just as good, all his weight on Zach like a promise, and Zach's more than happy with it. His dick is certainly happy, hardening right up in the dress slacks he's still wearing from after the game.

Evander bites at his throat, first, laughs something about stubble into the skin of it while Zach clenches his hands into fists to keep from mauling Evander right back. It's too fucking good, and maybe they're just a couple of kids rutting on the couch, but there's something better about it. Zach doesn't know what, but it's there, no two ways about it.

Evander gasps when Zach's hand touches the bare skin of his hip under his shirt. "Oh, hot - "

Zach pulls his hand away quickly, wide-eyed and staring at his palm, which is angry-red and yeah, burning hot. It doesn't hurt _him_ , but. "Sorry, sorry, that doesn't. Uh. Usually happen." He swallows, wills the temperature back to normal, and ventures to touch the back of Evander's neck this time.

When all Evander does is sigh into it, Zach relaxes, then grips the nape of Evander's neck hard, pulls him back in. "I showed you mine, man, you're not gonna show me yours?" he murmurs, already laughing at how dumb it sounds, but he kind of means it, and he doesn't really know how to ask.

Evander bites Zach's bottom lip, then his jaw, a little clumsy but still stupidly good. "Mine's not so good for this kind of thing." He sounds a little confused, but a lot turned on.

"Seriously?" Zach groans, then takes Evander's hands, wraps them around his own wrists, and puts them over his head against the soft arm of the couch. He watches Evander's throat work and sees when Evander gets it.

He'll insist until the day he dies that it's a whimper that comes out of Evander's mouth, and then Evander _is_ getting it, holy shit, yes, pressing Zach down until Zach can't move a muscle without feeling Evander's influence, and Zach's going to embarrass himself really fucking quickly at this rate. He's already concentrating hard on not bursting into spontaneous flames, but the way Evander's working his hips down against Zach's dick is pretty fucking distracting.

"So," Evander pants, like they're talking over a few beers, except for how his voice is shot and Zach can hear the faint tremble in it, too. "For the record, I think rewarding you for self-sacrificing bullshit is a pretty fucking awful idea, but fuck, man, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you on the team. I hated not being there for that interview, probably would've tries to suck you off in the showers for that shit."

It's crude and kind of typical, but it's honest and, okay, hot, and Zach doesn't know how to respond. "Shut up about the fucking interview, I'm two seconds away from coming in my pants, what's wrong with you." He groans when Evander does, trying to fuck up harder against the line of Evander's cock, which is obscene, nudging out the fabric of his sweats.

Evander shifts in answer and lines them both up sweet and perfect and picks up the rhythm, tightening his hands around Zach's wrist until it almost hurts, and that's all Zach can take before he's screwing his eyes shut and shooting off in his pants.

Evander takes another minute or two, doesn't let Zach up, but keeps grinding down against Zach's thigh, his eyes flicking back and forth between Zach's face, where Zach's shirt is rucked up on his belly, and finally up again to his own hands pinning Zach's in place. He bites his lip and makes a hurt, soft sound, and Zach can feel him come against his leg.

Neither of them move for a second. Then Zach twitches his fingers in Evander's grip, and Evander lets him go immediately.

He draws away but doesn't go far. Tuck managed to sleep through all of that, the damn dog, but now he's snuffling awake, dark ears swiveling around at them. He huffs at the Chinese and Zach shoos him away, then winces as the mess in his pants makes itself known, uncomfortably.

"You couldn't have manifested a power that got rid of jizz?" Evander bitches without heat. He sticks a handful of the napkins that came with the Chinese down his pants, grimacing. "Next time, pants come off." He looks at Zach. "And you need a shower."

Zach flicks his fingers and the fireplace roars to life. "I never run out of hot water," he says, making the fire climb higher in demonstration. "I mean, in case you'd like to join me."

"You're incredibly lame, but yes."

Zach tells Tuck to stay, scratches his fingers happily through his beard, and follows Evander down the hallway. They're going to be fucking exhausted for practice in the morning. Practice that Evander's going to be at, too, again, for the game Zach gets to play with him. It feels like it's been ages.

It's gonna be great.


End file.
